


The Heart of a Dead Thing

by ewelinakl



Series: Children of the Many-Eyed God [2]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Domestic Violence, Drug Addiction, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Multi, Redemption, Substance Abuse, Underage Substance Use, nothing graphic but please be mindful, there will be healing from both the addiction and the trauma in the second chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 16:14:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30142179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ewelinakl/pseuds/ewelinakl
Summary: He's a refugee, an addict, an Academy dropout, a wayward child of his god. He's a loyal servant to his Prince, Tyvia's future Royal Inventor, the brightest mind of the Empire. He's young and he's learning and refuses to let other people define him when he cannot yet define himself.
Relationships: Kirin Jindosh & Luigi Galvani, Kirin Jindosh & Slackjaw, Kirin Jindosh & his brother, background Geoff Curnow/Slackjaw
Series: Children of the Many-Eyed God [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2186883
Kudos: 2





	The Heart of a Dead Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for child abuse, domestic violence, implied/referenced sexual abuse, drug addiction, and substance abuse. There are no graphic descriptions of either of those, but please be careful.
> 
> The second part of this story will be all about healing, so bear with me as I put this poor guy through all those terrible things. I'm trying to do him justice and give him a redemption arc he deserved.

Kirin's earliest memory is one of a steppe — golden and fragrant, warmed by the summer sun. He’s waiting for his father to finish up some business with the elders of the village, playing with his little toy camel at the back of the cart, when he spots a bird in the sky — huge and marvellous, and so white he has to shield his eyes. He's three or maybe four, small enough to feel no fear, to reach out and cluck his tongue, inviting the bird closer so he can pet it like one of his uncle's falcons.

And the bird comes, bigger than their horse, whiter than the snow, with a beak golden and warm like the sun itself and one white eye that narrows when the bird smiles, looking into Kirin's face.

Kirin's five when he wakes up to a heart-wrenching wail of a song. He sneaks out of bed in nothing but his nightgown, his bare feet making no sound on the cold hardwood floors as he makes his way towards the front door. He has to push hard to get it to open, the wind has sealed it shut with snow. It's a clear, moonlit night, the frost is piercing to the bone.

Kirin looks right up to catch the sight of a bird circling over the mountains and the steppes behind them, its feathers so black that the midnight sky seems grey in comparison. The Bird meets his gaze, its five black eyes full of misery and scorching fury.

“You must run, my child,” it says, its voice heavy with emotion. “Take your family and flee before it’s too late.”

Kirin tries to warn everyone, do what the Bird told him, but no one listens.

He's five when he sees his father for the last time. The steppes and the mountain villages are burning, the smoke rises high in the crisp winter air. Baba looks terrified, pale and wide-eyed. He pushes a bag of gold, jewellery, and papers into Mama's trembling hands and helps her on the horse. Kirin is in the saddle already, his brother Timur right behind him, wrapping a protective arm around Kirin's waist. Their father kisses them both on the foreheads, whispering blessings and instructions in a broken voice. He cups Kirin's face in his palm — broad and warm, calloused from the sword.

“Be brave, Kiryushka,” he says. “Be good.”

It dawns on Kirin then — Baba’s not coming with them.

“No,” he says, but it's too late, they're running already. “Baba!” Kirin screams, trying to jump off the horse's back, but Timur holds him close, the grip of his arm too strong. “But Baba!” Kirin wails, digging his fingers into Timur's muscle. “We have to take Baba with us!”

“We can't, Kirochka,” Timur says, his voice hoarse, shattered.

Kirin's five when he steps off the boat in the docks of Dunwall, fatherless and scared. The air is heavy with the stench of rotting fish and sewage, the city grey and gloom, nothing but cobblestones and sky-high buildings. Kirin misses the sharp lines of the mountains, the rich scent of the steppe, the sunlight, and the colours of his homeland.

The Bird stands right next to him, green as a gemstone, beautiful as ever, but its three eyes are filled with pain and hopelessness that nearly make Kirin cry.

“The Bird doesn't like it here,” Kirin says, his voice small, barely more than a whisper, but enough for his mother to hear him.

“Stop saying things like this!” Mama hisses, grabbing him by the wrist and yanking his arm so hard he yelps in pain. “You'll get us all killed, you freak!”

Timur immediately steps between them, shielding Kirin with his body. “He doesn't understand that, he's just a child,” he says, his voice low and stern.

Mama huffs irritably, reaching into her handbag to retrieve some papers. “Make him shut up,” she orders. “I'll take care of the paperwork.”

They both watch her walk away towards the tide waiters, as pale and sullen as herself.

Timur sighs heavily as he crouches in front of Kirin. “Are you hurt?” he asks. Kirin shakes his head, even though his eyes are still filled with tears of pain. Timur wipes them away, smiling gently. “Kirochka, listen to me, I’m gonna tell you something very important, alright?” he says, resting his hands on Kirin’s shoulders, looking him in the eye. Kirin blinks the tears away and nods. “People here don’t know about the Bird,” Timur says quietly. “It’s a secret, you know? So you shouldn’t talk about it when there are strangers around. Just at home, okay?”

Kirin glances at the Bird, whose three green eyes close for a moment. “He’s right, my child,” the Bird says, its voice like a whisper of the wind dying in the steppe.

Kirin nods as solemnly as only a child can and then throws his arms over Timur’s neck and begins to sob because he cannot stand seeing his beloved Bird so sad.

Mama isn’t happy to see him cry when she comes back.

Kirin is a bright boy, a quick-learner, everyone says that. It doesn’t take him long to notice that in Dunwall, there are two kinds of Tyvians. The good ones, the ones who pass for locals — white-skinned, big-eyed, whose consonants are as soft and rounded as their faces. Tyvians like Anton Sokolov or Kirin’s Mama. And then there are Tyvians like him and Timur — with golden-brown skin, uptilted, hooded eyes, and features sharp as a hunter’s knife. Tyvians who will never pass, who will always be other, _worse_. Even when Kirin shakes off his accent, softens his crackling consonants and shortens his vowels, the Gristolians don’t see him as anything more than a Northern barbarian. He can change his accent, but he cannot change his face.

The people of Dunwall never make him feel welcome, even when he does his very best to integrate. No matter how hard he tries, he’s always a foreigner to them, an immigrant, a refugee. So after a while, he stops trying, choosing to lose himself in the books, instead, because books are safe and simple, they don’t insult him, they don’t know he’s a dirty little Tyvian scoundrel leeching off Gristol’s economy.

Kirin’s mother doesn’t approve of fiction, but it’s not a problem, he doesn’t care much for the untrue and the impossible anyway. Instead, he pores over Sokolov’s writings, devouring the _Reflection on My Journey to the Pandyssian Continent_ with bated breath and quickly moving on to more scientific positions.

The teachers that Mama hires for him — “we’re nobles, there’s a certain standard we need to live up to,” she says — accuse him of lying when he tells them what he’d read. They say these are writings far beyond the cognitive capabilities of a child so young. Kirin tells them that providing him with education is apparently a matter far beyond _their_ cognitive capabilities. When Mama hears about it, she smacks him so hard it takes Timur half an hour to stop the bleeding.

Kirin takes several more beatings before he learns to keep his mouth shut and let the teachers bore him to tears. He pretends to pay attention in class and studies long into the night, in bed, or curled against the furnace in his room. Before he falls asleep, he hides his books and notes under the false bottom of a chest, just in case. He's not sure how Mama would react to them.

Kirin’s mother has never liked Timur and when they move to Dunwall, her dislike quickly turns into hatred. Kirin doesn’t understand it, Timur is the best person he knows, kind and brave, and always ready to help. Kirin heard the word _bastard_ countless times, of course, that viciously hissed insult, thrown about already in Tyvia, back when Baba was still with them, but he assumed it was something like a _freak_ , just another form of abuse. It’s only once he moves on to study history and heraldry that he realises the true meaning of the word, the implications and ramifications of it, and everything clicks in place.

Kirin’s mother has never liked Kirin, either, even though he’s her natural son, and this he finds a lot more concerning. Timur is a bastard, an actual, factual bastard, and therefore Mama’s hatred for him feels somehow reasonable; it’s logical enough for Timur to ignore it, to know that no matter what he does, he’ll never earn her love and respect. But Kirin — Kirin should have them by default, he shouldn’t have to fight tooth and nail for them, watch his every move and word to avoid being beaten senseless and called names that cut to the bone. He shouldn’t fear his mother.

And yet.

For a long time, he thinks this fear is one-sided. It takes nearly seven years of his life and one dissected cat for him to realise that it's not the case.

The cat is dead when he finds it, next to the rosebush. It’s cold and stiff, and Kirin feels sorry for it, the poor skinny thing who always came to him when he called, who let him scratch it behind the ears and feed it bits of eel. It makes him want to cry, but he knows that if Mama found him crying, she wouldn’t be happy and the bruises on his ribs are still so tender, he doesn’t want to risk it.

He wants to know what happened to the cat, why it’s no longer alive, what robbed him of the one friend he had in Dunwall besides Timur. He thinks of Sokolov’s writings about vivisection and wonders if the same could be done with a dead animal, to find out the cause of its death. He moves the cat under the rosebush and climbs upstairs to read about it.

When Mama finds him a few hours later performing an autopsy in the laundry room, she calls him a monster and a murderer and hits him so hard he spends half of the night throwing up and sobbing into Timur’s shirt, begging him to not let him fall asleep because his head is spinning and he knows it’s a concussion, he’s read about those. But before Mama hits him that day, their eyes meet over the corpse of a cat and Kirin sees fear in her eyes, fear of _him_.

He must be about seven and a half when he walks into the sitting room and sees Mama’s friend, Mrs Brimsley, snorting something through a little porcelain tube. Her eyes are glassy when she looks at him and smiles in that way that makes the blood curdle in his veins.

“Oh, aren’t you a dashing young thing,” she purrs. “Kirin, isn’t it? Come here, my dear, let me have a look at you.”

Kirin does as he’s told because he knows better than to disobey his mother’s friend. Mrs Brimsley takes his chin in her cold, clammy fingers and looks at him. She smells strongly of vanilla and musk, a heavy, cloying mixture that makes Kirin a little sick to his stomach. From up close, her pupils are huge, blown out to the point they take up almost all the iris.

“What is this?” Kirin asks, pointing to the porcelain tube and an ornate snuffbox. He doesn’t really care, he just wants Mrs Brimsley to look elsewhere and stop touching him.

It works, partially. Her eyes dart to the snuffbox and then to the door, but her arm wraps around his waist and pulls him into her lap. He doesn’t want to sit there, he hates the way she presses against him, but he knows better than to run.

Mrs Brimsley rests her chin on his shoulder and murmurs, “How about I show you, huh? Only, you can’t tell anyone, your mother would be very upset with us if she found out. She’d say it’s not for children. But you’re not a child, are you?”

This question — this entire speech — is a trap, Kirin knows that. It’s a choice between Mrs Brimsley’s clammy hands and whatever she has in her snuffbox, and his mother’s rage when she hears he disrespected her guest.

He chooses Mrs Brimsley, who chuckles when he nods. She doesn’t touch the tube, licking the tip of her finger and dipping it into the snuffbox, instead. It comes out covered in something white, like flour or powdered sugar, and Kirin hopes it’s the latter when Mrs Brimsley tells him to open his mouth.

It's neither. It's something strange, tasteless and numbing, and he doesn't like the feeling at all, doesn't like the way the world sways briefly.

“Shh,” Mrs Brimsley hums, her tone wickedly amused, her fingers scaling his ribs like they are keys of a piano. “Don't panic, you'll feel very good in a moment, I promise.”

He doesn't feel very good at all, though, and when his mother comes into the room and tells him to get lost, he jumps at the opportunity and runs to his room, feeling his pulse racing.

But then comes a mental clarity, an unparalleled calm that allows him to understand everything so profoundly it almost scares him.

And he thinks — if only he had more of that powder, he could understand all the mysteries of the universe and create wonders that would shock even the great Anton Sokolov.

Later, he'll try to pinpoint the exact moment he's lost control over it. He'll ask himself whether he’s ever had any control, to begin with.

In the following decades, he'll do things that would have him damned by the Abbey and disowned by his relatives, just to get his hands on some more drugs, and every year, every month, every week, they'll feel a little easier, a little less dreadful and repulsive. And he'll wonder if it's his fault, or he's a victim of the circumstance.

He'll never find an answer.

If life were a series of turning points, the next would be Nina Boyarova's birthday party.

Kirin is twelve by then, Timur has just turned twenty, Nina might be six or seven, he can't recall anymore. She's a nice kid, curious, and he likes her, so he decides to give her something special as a gift.

It takes a lot of planning and failed attempts, but he's proud of the end result. It's a cat, but mechanical. A cat made of wood and brass, and some bones that he doesn't mention, knowing how people react to such things. With a few drops of whale oil a day, Nina can have a pet that will never leave her, that will never die.

She loves it the second she sees it, her eyes light up as she pours the oil into the receptacle and watches the cat stretch it's back. And then things go terribly wrong.

Later they'll say it was the cat that drove her mad, but it's not true. It's the Bird, five-eyed and blacker than the night, coming to see Kirin's latest invention the way it comes to see his every invention.

Nina's eyes — round and big, because she's one of the good Tyvians — widen at the sight of the Bird and she screams. It's a high-pitched shriek of terror that Kirin doesn't understand. Why would anyone — especially a good Tyvian — fear the Bird? Their god and saviour, who watches over them and tries to keep them safe.

Nina screams and faints, and Kirin isn't allowed to explain, he's pulled outside by his mother, her fingers like a vice on his arm. She doesn't say a word as they walk to the carriage and on the way home, and Kirin knows it's a bad sign, knows she'll hit him as soon as they're inside. He looks for the Bird, its feathers white now, just as its single eye, like that first time they met, and Kirin whispers a desperate prayer to, please, make sure Timur is home, or else she'll kill him.

The Bird listens as it always does and Mama manages to land one blow to the side of Kirin's head before Timur barges into the room and pulls her away from him.

He pushes Mama onto the bed, hard, with a force he's never exhibited before, and kneels next to Kirin, his eyes huge with worry, the touch of his fingers delicate, unsure.

“I swear it wasn't the toy,” Kirin whispers, trying his best to hold back the tears, knowing that his tears make Mama angrier, worrying they might make Timur angry, too. “I swear, Tima, I swear on the Bird, it wasn't my fault.”

“It's alright, Kirochka, don't worry,” Timur says without a trace of anger in his voice, closing his arms around Kirin in a tight, protective embrace.

Kirin hides his face in Timur's shirt that smells of fresh laundry and a hint of lemon cake until everything melts into darkness and the comforting scent of his brother. He clasps his fingers on Timur's arms, desperately trying to keep his body from shaking.

“I swear it wasn't me, it was the Bird, she saw the Bird and started screaming, I don't know why, I swear, Tima, please, believe me,” he mumbles, words slurring together, heart racing because he can hear his mother getting up and huffing angrily.

“There is no bird, you freak!” she shrills, making him flinch. Timur's hand cradles his head in a protective gesture, a little _I've got you, Kiryusha, don't worry_. “ _You_ did that, you and that monstrous toy! I should've locked you up in a mental asylum the second you started spewing those mad tales. Now everyone knows what a monster you are. You ruined me! I gave you everything you could ever dream of, and you ruined me with your lunacy, you ungrateful brat.”

Timur moves, sharply, Kirin still tucked safely against his chest, face pressed into his shirt. “Don't you fucking dare touch him again,” he growls so low and scary Kirin hardly recognises his voice.

For a moment there's an astonished silence, and then,

“Get out.”

“Excuse me?” Timur says.

“Get out. Take that goddamned monster and get the fuck out of my house. I let you live under my roof long enough, but I've had it.”

Kirin stops shaking, feeling numb with terror. Is Mama really kicking them out of the house? Where are they supposed to go? What will they live off? Timur works as a clerk at Lord Estermont's, but does he get paid enough to support them both?

“Fine,” Timur says, his voice ice-cold. “As soon as you give us our inheritance.”

Mama doesn't like that demand, she begins to shout and tries to attack Timur, but he keeps his distance until she deflates. Then he gently puts Kirin down and tells him to wait in the kitchen, he'll be there soon.

Kirin does as he's told. It's the only thing he knows.

The years he spends with Timur in a small, cramped apartment in the Drapers Ward are the best of his years in Dunwall.

They don't have much money, but it's enough to live more or less comfortably. It might not be the luxury they're used to, but Kirin is well aware that they're still in a far better position than most of the city. Their apartment is warm and dry, they have enough to eat, good quality clothes on their backs, and even some cash left over for books, theatre, and Kirin's experiments.

He thrives, without the ever-present terror of his mother. Timur supports his every endeavour, buys him whatever books and supplies he needs, even if it means sacrificing his own pleasure at times. No one polices Kirin's reading or sleeping schedule anymore. There's no abuse, only kind encouragement and thoughtful if sometimes misinformed questions.

Kirin begins to think about trying for the Academy then, studying among the greatest minds of his generation. By now he knows he doesn't want to follow in Sokolov's footsteps, he's far more interested in engineering than biology, but he'd still love to meet the man whose writings inspired his love for science, who was his hero for so many years.

And if there's anything that mars the perfect bliss of those days, it's Kirin's addiction. He never lets Timur see it, finding the strangest ways to get the money to keep himself comfortably drugged, but lying only makes him feel more guilty.

At the age of thirteen, he enters the Academy of Natural Sciences as their youngest student ever, younger than even Anton Sokolov and Piero Joplin, essentially still a child.

The teachers adore him because he's brilliant and sharp, and not at all intimidated by the fact that his colleagues are more than twice his age. He plunges into the world of knowledge that opens before him, staying long hours after class to ask questions and conduct experiments, putting in way more effort than any of his peers.

There are subjects he loves, like human anatomy, engineering, or metallurgy, and some he doesn't care much for, like Sokolov's classes on vivisection and whales. It’s a disappointment to be bored by the man he’s held in such high esteem. Or to find out the Bird won’t accompany him into Sokolov's classroom, hissing and stopping right before the door as if there was some sort of a barrier there, some shadow the Bird refuses to step into. Kirin feels it, too, a strange presence that feels like thick, black oil clinging to his very soul. But unlike the Bird, he doesn't have the option of staying out.

Surprisingly, he likes Luigi Galvani's classes, even though Galvani is a bit of a pompous ass-kisser. He has great knowledge of the human body and is the most approachable of the professors, ready and willing to answer all of Kirin's questions, no matter how weird and uncomfortable they get. He doesn't mind staying a few hours after class to assist Kirin with an experiment or two, help him organise and systematise his notes.

The class he loves most is engineering but can’t force himself to like the teacher. Piero Joplin is one odd man, only ever half-present in reality, with an uncomfortable stare that seems to reach into the greatest depths of Kirin's essence. Joplin goes between periods of impressive focus and incredible inventions, and apathy that makes him look more dead than alive, barely more than a spectre. And perhaps the reason why Kirin doesn't like him is that he sees himself in Piero Joplin — brilliant and capable, but somehow broken, tainted, on the verge of disappearing into some other dimension. Perhaps Kirin doesn't like Joplin because he fears he'll end up like this one day. He tries not to think about it, though.

In his second year, he moves into the Academy dorms because the two hours he wastes on commuting every day are too precious to him. He visits Timur every weekend, though, and writes messy, chaotic letters in the meantime, relating his time spent at Galvani's lab or office, where he gets to see him treat the patients and carefully examine pathogens, or at Joplin's workshop, where he witnesses the birth of true marvels of modern engineering. People call Sokolov the father of the industrial revolution, but it's not true, it's Joplin and Roseburrow who start it, who set the base Sokolov will build on.

He learns everything he can, even things that seem unimportant or irrelevant. He chooses to squeeze the Academy of everything it can give him because he still doesn't quite know what he wants to do in the future. He's full of ideas and he thrashes between them like a fly in a jar, turning from one professor to another, asking questions, taking notes, thinking and analysing long into the night, when he's so drugged he cannot see the Bird anymore.

Often, he imagines himself as the youngest ever graduate, barely eighteen and already greater than Sokolov himself, beating the 'good' Tyvian who cannot see their god, whom their god detests and avoids.

But then his third year rolls around and the world is on fire.

He's sixteen when the Rat Plague starts and Dunwall descends into chaos. They discuss it with Timur, it’s a tumultuous argument that takes nearly the whole weekend, but in the end, they agree that Kirin should stay in the dorms, at least for now. Travelling between districts is difficult nowadays, with all the reinforced checkpoints, arc pylons, walls of light, and constant controls of the documents and permits. Unsettled by fear and uncertainty, the City Watch is harsher and more cruel than usual, and Kirin and Timur both know that their distinctly Tyvian faces make them the easiest targets. No one will react when they see a Tyvian abused by the Watch because reacting takes effort and who’d make an effort for an immigrant, for one of those northern barbarians, Sokolov’s countrymen, damn him and all his security devices. Kirin and Timur know that a single word out of turn, a step out of line will be enough to send them to Coldrige or the Flooded District. It’s safer to stay at home.

And Kirin knows enough of medicine to understand that it’s those daily trips that allow the plague to spread and that they should be outlawed for all of them, anyway, Tyvian or not.

He's worried sick about Timur's safety, though, and misses him so much it aches; dull, numbing pain in his chest that doesn't abate, no matter what he does to treat it.

At the Academy, they all keep their distance, wear masks, and rub their hands with alcohol, but the rest of Dunwall doesn't have the same knowledge, the same habits, and Kirin knows it's only a matter of time before someone infects his brother. He dreams about it, every fitful night, every bleak morning, and it horrifies him, so he chooses to stay awake until his brain is so exhausted that he cannot dream anymore, or drug himself to the point that he cannot feel a thing.

In the meantime, Joplin gets under somebody's skin and soon enough he's expelled. And though he's never been particularly social and wasn't close with the other scholars, somehow his departure changes things at the Academy. Suddenly it's every man for himself, it's Sokolov's Elixir versus Piero's Remedy, it's Galvani trying to establish the cause and spread of the plague on his own, in a dim secret room of his lab, it's the students trying to work on their own and feeling like what they do is pitiful and small, and utterly useless.

Kirin doesn't attempt to understand the sickness or create a cure, he doesn't have a good enough grasp on virology and epidemiology, and while he's mastered the mechanics of a human body, he still knows very little about the humours inside it and how they're affected by medication.

He tries to at least support Galvani in his endeavours, though, out of an odd sense of duty; spends days organising and analysing his notes, trying to find the hidden nuggets of knowledge or links Galvani might've missed along the way. They make progress, but it's tedious and unsatisfactory, and before they know, half of the city is under lockdown and everywhere people are weeping blood.

And then comes a week when he receives no message from Timur and he _knows_ , even though he tries to delude himself, deny the obvious.

Come the weekend, he sneaks past the quarantine lines, paying an absurd amount of money to some desperate smuggler for getting him to the Drapers Ward, right under the nose of Lizzy Stride, her Dead Eels, and whatever's left of the Hatters.

He’s lucky — the gangs either don’t see him crossing their territory, or they just don’t care about a scrawny Tyvian kid making his way through their streets. No one bothers him, even though he can’t bring himself to be careful, not when already from the Waterfront he can see the open window in Timur’s room, a gaping black wound in the face of the building, and the edge of a curtain moving in the air, purple like a deep bruise.

He knows what he'll see when he enters the apartment, but he's not ready for it, how could anyone ever be ready for something like this? He's seen plenty of corpses in his anatomy lessons, so fresh they haven't gone cold yet, and so decomposed the flesh peeled off the bones. He's seen death and isn't afraid of it. And it's not the corpse that he'll have to face that scares him, it's the absence it implies, the fact that once he'll have buried this body, he won't ever hear his brother's voice again, will never see him smile over a bowl of beetroot soup, feel him ruffle his hair, get a letter written in those crooked, tilted letters, so small he has to squint to decipher their meaning.

What he's afraid of is being left alone in this wicked, dying city, losing his greatest support, his beloved brother who held him close and protected from all that was bad, who always believed in Kirin's tales of the Bird.

Kirin is sixteen, nowhere near adulthood, as he realises now. He's still a child, a terrified, lost boy, forced to face something no child should face. But he has no choice, he owes Timur at least this much for all the years of kindness and love, of always having his back.

So he climbs the stairs, tears welling up in his eyes at the absence of the weeper stench, at the realisation that Timur followed every sanitary rule Kirin brought him in and made sure that he wouldn't infect anyone in their building.

The door to their apartment is locked in every way possible and barricaded with a chest of drawers that Kirin has to push against so hard, he'll surely sport some bruises in the morning. The entrance to Timur's room is barred as well, but the chair he used is easier to break with a good kick.

And then he's face to face with Timur — pale and contorted, splattered with dark blood — and all he can do is drop to his knees right at the door before the primal instinct of touching his brother kicks in. He sits on his heels and cries, covering his mouth with a hand to stifle the desperate sobs, knowing that he can't afford anyone to hear.

He shows up at Galvani’s doorstep in the middle of the night, red-eyed and shaking. He has nowhere else to go, knows no one else who could help him burn Timur’s body, give him a semblance of a proper funeral. Galvani takes one look at Kirin, his tear-stricken face and rain-soaked shirt, and agrees, because he’s a good man at the end of the day, kind and caring, and Kirin must look like a child there, a terrified, orphaned boy.

He feels very far away from his body, detached even though he’s sober, too sober to bear it, maybe. He hears Galvani calling for a carriage and berating the staff for not offering Kirin a warm drink, he feels Galvani towelling his hair and gently urging him to change into a dry set of clothes which are too big for Kirin’s small frame but will do for one night. The Bird is right beside him, black and vengeful, except for the white-feathered fingers that brush the tears off Kirin's cheeks.

Kirin waits with a cup of strong, sweet coffee between his cold hands, listening to Galvani's steps up and down the stairs, his frustrated tone as he talks to the guards. There's plenty of paperwork that needs to be done before they leave, plenty of explaining, too, and Kirin lets Galvani take care of it, clasping his fingers tight around the cup until he feels them burn, until his mind finally makes a connection with his body.

“You should drink that, Kirin,” Galvani says when the coffee has cooled.

Kirin drinks because Galvani just called him by his name, because he's no longer 'Mr Jindosh', a promising student of the Academy, he's 'Kirin', a broken boy, who knows that _should_ is but a thinly veiled order and that there’s a threat behind every order.

The coffee is sickeningly sweet, but he swallows it all and stands up, letting Galvani put an arm around his shoulders and walk him down the stairs, to the waiting carriage.

Oddly enough, Kirin doesn't mind being touched. He doesn't shrug Galvani's arm off, even as the man pulls him closer and rests a hand on the back of Kirin's neck. Galvani's touch feels nothing like Mrs Brimsley's or some of the people Kirin buys drugs from, he has no ulterior motive, he's just trying to offer Kirin some consolation, do what a father might do in a situation like this. Were they at the Academy, Kirin would've run, but right now they're a broken boy and the closest thing he has to a father figure, so he sits still, accepting this act of compassion, resting his head against Galvani's shoulder as tears stream down his face, slowly soaking the front of his shirt.

It's almost sunrise when they finally remove Timur's body from Drapers Ward and take it to the Academy to have it cremated. Galvani lets him touch Timur's face one last time when they have their safety suits and masks on and waits for Kirin's permission before turning on the furnace. Kirin thinks that it's nice of him, kind. That Galvani doesn't owe him this kind of kindness, and that Kirin has nothing to repay it. But Galvani doesn't seem to expect a payback, he simply hugs Kirin once they're out of their suits and properly disinfected, and offers him a cup of tea and a piece of slightly stale pastry in his office, where Kirin waits until his classes start.

Some months later, the Plague ends at last, Sokolov and Joplin join forces and find a cure, Dunwall crowns a new Empress, and all is well.

Except it's not.

Except Kirin's soul is shattered and try as he may, he cannot piece it back together. He goes to class and excels at everything he does. The teachers still love him, his peers still hate him, he's full of ideas and conducts an experiment after experiment, all of them successful, but what does it matter when he cannot tell Timur about it when he cannot go home for the weekend because his home was burned in one of the Academy's furnaces.

The Bird tries to console him, humming songs of their motherland, of golden steppes and blue mountains, of gentle shores of Dabokva. It straightens out his dreams, taking away the fear and misery, and filling them with vast skies and sturdy horses galloping through a sea of grass. And Kirin appreciates the sentiment, but the memory of Tyvia is intertwined with the memory of Timur so tightly that he can't think of one without thinking of the other, and he hurts every single time he sees those grasses and horses, every time he looks up into those endless skies.

So he sneaks out of the dorms and hikes to the waterfront, where he lets people use him in exchange for drugs that allow him to forget, that make his mind clear and sharp, the way it used to be before. He knows it's not a solution, that the more he does it, the harder it will be to quit, that his body is already so much weaker because of it, but he's tired of hurting, tired of the Bird with its wistful visions and gentle compassion, tired of everything but science, and it's so much easier to focus on science, when his mind is clean and wide open, when it's like freshly fallen snow.

Two years after the Plague, Kirin forgets how to cry.

When crying could get him in trouble with his mother and he desperately wished he could stop, tears were always ready to well up in his eyes. Now that he wants to shed them, he cannot. It's ironic, in a sense.

He knows he did it to himself. What he doesn't know is _how_. Or whether there's a way to fix it.

The Academy taught him how to combine metals and harvest whale oil, and the names of every bone and muscle of a human body, but it taught him nothing on how feelings work, how to switch off grief or erase trauma. He’s helpless against his soul and so, for the time being, he cannot cry.

Maybe it's guilt, he wonders on the day when he spots the Bird, emerald and utterly disappointed in him. Soon after, he stops seeing the Bird at all, severs the last connection to his old life, to his old self, and feels none of the relief he expected to feel.

He builds a machine then — a music box of a sort, filled with saltwater and singing in the voice of the Bird he's lost. Everyone marvels at his invention but no one recognises the song, not even Anton Sokolov, _especially_ Anton Sokolov, and it fills Kirin with such disgust, such overwhelming contempt that he cannot meet Sokolov's eyes when the old man looks at him.

Two weeks later, Kirin is expelled from the Academy.

He reads the expulsion letter three times before he finally registers its meaning.

_Banned for life. All titles and progress formally rescinded._

All the years of hard work, all the technological and medical progress he's contributed to, all his grades, papers, titles, and certificates — gone, stripped away from him.

His head feels like it's full of cotton, the whale-oil lamps burn through his retinas and into his brain. This — the Academy, science — is his whole life. Without it, he's nothing, a dreg, a waste of space.

It's nothing like Joplin's situation, a mere spat between two scholars, something that can be fixed under favourable conditions, with a bit of goodwill. This is serious, final.

_Banned for life_.

"But why?" he whispers, looking up at the council.

"You're a danger to society," Anton Sokolov says, his vowels clipped and consonants round, his accent distinctly Gristollian.

Their eyes meet — Sokolov's, round and grey, and Kirin's, brown and uptilted — and Kirin shudders at the cold hatred he sees.

Whatever he did, Sokolov will never forgive him for that.

The next two years are a blur. He misses science, misses Timur, Tyvia, the Bird, misses all that he once was and all that he could've become.

He's left with nothing but an apartment full of painful memories, some meagre savings, and his body, but it's enough to get by, enough to stay warm and drugged, and not worry about hunger because he cannot feel it when he's high. He's ruining himself every time he snorts a line, every time he lets a stranger touch him, every time he skips a meal, but he doesn't care, he’s hit the rock bottom, he can't sink any lower than that, and life's short and dreadful anyway, he has no reason to cling to it.

He's days, maybe weeks from tipping over the edge when a pretty blonde boy grabs him by the wrist and hauls through space in rapid, impossible leaps that have Kirin's stomach lurching. But it's not the blatant witchcraft that bothers him most about this trip to the Dunwall Tower, he's familiar enough with the impossible and otherworldly, he knows gods exist and grant their powers to their chosen few. What bothers him is the way this magic feels — hostile and dangerous, like tar, like black oil on top of the water, blocking out sunlight and slowly suffocating the fish.

The second the blonde boy lets go of him, Kirin all but leaps back, rubbing his wrist, trying to get rid of remnants of that strange magic on his skin.

“Wait here,” the blonde says.

Now that Kirin can see him clearly, he realises it's not a boy but a man, well over a decade older than himself, it's just the bright green eyes and a scattering of freckles over his nose that give him a youthful look.

Kirin doesn't nod nor does he respond verbally, but the blonde man doesn't seem to care, leaving him alone in the room.

Kirin takes a deep breath, finally letting go of his wrist. The adrenaline wears off slowly, leaving him numb and sluggish, and utterly incapable of fighting back. He scrambles up from the floor to slump on a low sofa, soft and comfortable under his weary body. He throws a leg over the back of it and wishes he could fall asleep, get some rest before— whatever it is they have planned for him.

He suspects it has something to do with Sokolov. Who else would've brought him to the Tower? Who else would've sought out help from the Outsider's chosen? He has no clue what Sokolov might want from him, though. Kirin poses no threat, he has no money, no opportunities, and no will to conspire against the Royal Physician. It would've been logical if he'd grown bitter after his expulsion, and perhaps he has grown bitter indeed, but he can’t bring himself to care much when he's drugged, and he’s hardly ever sober these days. He hates Sokolov, sure he does, but he won't do anything about it because the fight is pointless and he's tired.

He feels awful, his muscles tingling, his thoughts racing, his heartbeat growing erratic. His clothes cling to his sweaty body even though it's cold in the room, and it’s getting harder to ignore with each passing minute, measured by his laboured breathing.

He doesn't move, though, nor does he show his discomfort because he's the prey here and prey must never show weakness lest it be devoured.

It's not Sokolov who comes to see him, in the end.

“Finally. What do you want from me?” Kirin asks, sitting up and doing his best to sound flippant, to hide the mad fear that makes his heart race.

The men watch him with expressions he knows too well — pity mixed with guilt. Kirin is unfazed. It's been a long time since those looks stopped making him angry.

He takes the time to observe the men back — they’re both tall and slender, both apex predators. One is a Royal Guard, he stands a little further in the back with hands clasped behind his back as if he has something to hide. The other stands closer, feet set far apart, arms crossed over the chest, eyes fixed on Kirin's face. He's in charge here, even though he doesn't look like someone who could hold any power in a place like the Dunwall Tower. His gaudy, patterned clothes pin him as a criminal, there's something about them that reminds Kirin of the Hatters, just slightly more refined, a little more purposeful, perhaps ironic. And this face — those eyes that aren't both quite the same colour, this nose that seems to have been broken multiple times, this carefully controlled mess of facial hair — it seems familiar, too, though he cannot tell where he knows it from.

Not until the man grinds his teeth, at least. Then Kirin notices the crooked line of his jaw, a little bump at the side of it as if the bone had been broken and didn't heal right, and it dawns on him.

_Slackjaw_.

Slackjaw in the Dunwall Tower with a Royal Guard at his command. It’s a situation that doesn't compute, but Kirin puts on a brave face, watching the man take a chair and sit down opposite him, shoulders stooped low.

“Let’s have lunch first,” Slackjaw says, his voice rich and pleasant, his r's rolled.

“I’m not hungry,” Kirin says flatly. He sounds like an insolent child, but he prefers that to showing how scared he is.

Slackjaw chuckles, it's a grim, unhappy sound, dangerously low. “When did you last eat?” he asks.

The question catches Kirin off guard.

He doesn't know, cannot remember, it could've been a day, it could've been three. He quickly bridles his panic and shrugs, though.

“What does it matter?” he asks.

“You’re going to eat first,” Slackjaw says with finality. “Then we can talk.”

Kirin wants to argue, tries to find some arguments, but Slackjaw pays him no mind, turning to the guard. “Could you try to get him something, please? Something warm, a soup, maybe? Or some sort of a runny puree? Something that doesn’t require much chewing.”

The very idea of eating makes Kirin shudder, but even as he fights nausea, he doesn't miss the distinctly warm note in Slackjaw's voice, the politeness of his words that doesn't sound forced at all.

The guard nods, casting a look at Kirin, his eyes once more filling with pity and remorse. And then he's gone, leaving Kirin alone with Slackjaw.

They're both stubbornly silent. Kirin's fingers tremble so he intertwines them, staring into the wall somewhere above Slackjaw. Sweat trickles down his back, plastering his shirt to his skin. He shifts his shoulders to fix that. It doesn’t help much.

When the guard comes back with a bowl of creamy soup and a jug of water, Kirin can't help but shiver, fighting the urge to throw up.

Slackjaw says, “You gotta eat that, boy."

And all Kirin can do is press his mouth shut and shake his head in a desperate plea, even though he knows it's pointless.

Slackjaw leans forward until he’s eye-to-eye with Kirin. “You eat that, boy,” he repeats, his voice leaving no room for disobedience, “or I feed that to you. The choice is yours.”

As always, _choice_ is just an illusion, so Kirin takes a spoon and forces the thick soup down his throat, fighting his gag reflex.

“What do you want from me?” Kirin repeats an eternity later when his stomach has calmed down enough to let him speak.

“I want to make a deal,” Slackjaw says, his hand moving to his belt.

Kirin half-expects him to draw out a weapon, but instead, Slackjaw fishes something small out of a pouch at his belt and throws it to Kirin who catches it instinctively in both hands.

It's a snuffbox.

A deal like many in Kirin's life, then.

Why did Slackjaw drag him all the way here, to the Tower, though? Where's the catch?

Kirin casts the man a wary look and slowly opens the box. Sokolov might still have a part in all of this, this box could be a trap, a clever means to kill him. Poisonous gas, maybe. Or rather an explosive, Sokolov has always been rather blunt and unrefined in his engineering projects.

But when he looks inside the box, there's no trap, there's only relief that washes over him, so strong, it blinds him for a second.

Nothing ever comes free, though, and before he gets to fix his muddled mind and tense muscles, he needs to pay his dues. He looks at Slackjaw, calm and confident, strong in a way that reminds Kirin of an attacking falcon or maybe a fox. But it's not Slackjaw that truly scares him, it's the other man, the guard, who might not look like a violent bastard, but Kirin knows better than to trust the appearances. He thinks back to every watchman or officer that had him, and how many of them took pleasure in his pain and fear.

But nothing in the world comes free. Kirin has a price to pay and nowhere to run, so he puts the snuffbox aside and falls to his knees, hoping that he can make it quick at least.

“Get up,” Slackjaw barks, before Kirin's hands reach his pants. Kirin obeys instantly, heart pounding in his chest, eyes drifting back to the guard in the background, fear clenching like a vice on his windpipe. “Sit,” Slackjaw says, softer now, and Kirin can't help but wonder what horrifying ordeal they have in store for him, what is it that has to be sweetened this way.

He sits down on the sofa, though, his fingers finding the snuffbox and closing over it in search of comfort. Slackjaw stands up. Kirin's heart stills.

“I want to talk,” Slackjaw says, his voice raspy, angry. “Pull yourself together. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

And then he leaves, along with his guard, and Kirin wastes no time, snorting as much of the powdered drug as he knows is safe.

Sooner or later, they will come back and take what's theirs. And Kirin knows it will be much easier to bear when he's high.

When they return, Kirin's mind is crystal clear and sharp as a scalpel. He knows why he's here, what they want from him, and it's neither his body nor his life.

It's his brilliant mind and his engineering skills. Joplin died a year or so ago and Sokolov, though he loves to boast, is not as deft with machinery, not as creative.

There are still things about this situation that Kirin doesn't compute, like Slackjaw's presence, but he's got his footing and his wits, he's no longer helpless. He won't go down without a fight.

Slackjaw sits down in the same chair he’s sat in before, the guard at his side. Kirin doesn't speak this time, waiting for Slackjaw to break the silence, lay out his terms.

“As I said, I have a deal for you,” Slackjaw says unceremoniously. “I want you to build something for me, Kirin.”

Kirin smirks. “I’m sure you do,” he says, holding back a laugh. “I only wonder, why you’d ask for my help when you could use the expertise of someone far more accomplished than myself,” he adds, glancing pointedly at a screen in the corner of the room.

It's bulky and inelegant, but functional enough for Sokolov to be able to see them and hear every word if he's so inclined. And the fact that the old man doesn't even deign to face him after what he's done, makes Kirin's blood boil.

Slackjaw chuckles, leaning forward, his forearms resting on his thighs. “Because just like you, I have no reason to trust those bastards,” he says and suddenly Kirin is overtaken with emotion, his heart tears in his chest, a distant echo of a song fills his ears, and he can almost smell the steppe, dry and warmed by the sun, as on the day he first saw the Bird.

Slackjaw spoke Tyvian, fluent as if he's been speaking it his whole life, with a hint of the Dabokvan accent, some o's turned into a's, and softer, more crackling diphthongs.

“I see,” Kirin replies in Tyvian, slipping into his native accent like it's his favourite sweater, feeling warm and safe, and home at last.

He hasn't spoken Tyvian since Timur's death, hasn't thought in Tyvian since he's stopped seeing the Bird, but his mother tongue is not gone, it's not damaged, it's like a well-kept weapon, still fitted perfectly to his hand and ready to kill.

“I believe some introductions are in order,” Kirin says, smiling at the ease with which the words come to him, the melody of his own speech. “I thought I was speaking to a Gristolian crime lord, but perhaps I was mistaken?”

Slackjaw smiles back, sitting up straight and for a second the rustle of his silk shirt sounds like a whisper of the Bird's feathers, making Kirin's heart twinge.

“Aleksandr Korolev, the Heir of Tyvia,” Slackjaw says.

And it's impossible, it cannot be, but there's certainty in Slackjaw's voice and a brief flash of emerald green behind his head, and Kirin believes without question, bowing his head, pressing his right hand to his chest in a long-forgotten salute of his people. He might be the first one to greet the Prince this way and it fills him with fierce pride.

“Your Tyvian is really good,” Slackjaw says, looking away as if he's uncomfortable with this gesture. "I assume you emigrated young."

“We spoke Tyvian at home.” Kirin shrugs. His voice is harder than he wants it to be. “My brother and I. My mother—.” He winces. He doesn't want to talk about any of this. “It doesn’t matter, does it? So you want me to build you a war machine," he says to change the subject.

He's so certain that he's already designing it in his mind. But Slackjaw shakes his head, catching him off guard once more.

“They want that,” Slackjaw says, waving at the screen and Kirin isn't quite sure who he's referring to. Sokolov? The Empress? The Royal Protector? “They want me to take my country by force, invade it like some sort of a common usurper. But I won’t spill the blood of my people and tear my motherland apart. I’m the rightful heir to the throne. I shouldn’t need to fight to get it back.”

Slackjaw is not a usurper, no, he's their Prince, kind and noble, and he will not harm his people. What he needs isn't a war machine, it's a means to convey the legitimacy of his ascension to the throne, to show kindness to those who hurt, wisdom to those in doubt, and power to those in disbelief. He needs the Bird.

And for the first time in years, Kirin sees his god, tar-black, reaching out to brush his hair in a familiar, soothing gesture. Its black teeth bared in a loving smile that Kirin doesn't deserve.

The five-eyed bird gestures at him to speak, negotiate the terms of his contract as if there was anything to discuss here, as if he needed or deserved any payback, as if being allowed to build a thing like this for his Prince wasn't enough.

“And what’s in it for me?” he asks. The Bird nods appreciatively, tucking a lock of hair behind Kirin's ear.

Kirin wants nothing more than for the Bird to stay with him, to never leave him alone again. He wants to get down on his knees and beg for forgiveness. But it's not the time yet. He strayed and he must pay for it. Perhaps if he completes this task, the Bird will give him another chance.

“I will need a Royal Inventor, when I take the throne,” Slackjaw says, smiling, and in the moment Kirin takes to look at him, the Bird disappears. “There’s a lot I want to change and I’d like you to help me.”

Kirin chuckles, pouting playfully to hide the pain he feels. “So, a position at your court?” he asks.

Slackjaw shrugs, crossing his legs at the ankles. “It comes with unlimited funding for your experiments,” he says, winking, but Kirin doesn't smile.

“Where’s the catch, Your Grace?” he asks, feeling irritated, all of a sudden; anxious because nothing ever comes free and he hasn't earned a privilege like this. “You want me to quit, right?" It feels obvious, almost certain, and it fills him with dread. "You want me to get sober, and if I don’t, then—” Kirin blurts out, reaching into a pocket of his jacket, closing his fingers over the snuffbox.

“Do you want to get sober?” Slackjaw cuts in.

“No.” Kirin closes his fist over the metal box, squeezing so hard it hurts. He won't let Slackjaw take this away from him. It's the only way to keep his mind clear, to keep the pain at bay. Slackjaw doesn't understand.

“Then you won’t get sober,” Slackjaw says, shrugging. Kirin narrows his eyes, searching for a trap in those words. There must be a trap, there always is. “I can’t force you to quit," Slackjaw says calmly. "And I don’t mean to. If at any point you want to get sober, come to me and I’ll do my best to help. But until then… Well, all I can do is to make sure you get the good stuff. So that’s what I’m gonna do.”

Kirin watches him in silence, turning over each and every word, trying to figure out Slackjaw's motives. The snuffbox digs painfully into the flesh of his palm. “Where’s the catch?” he asks eventually. “Nothing ever comes without a catch.”

Slackjaw smiles, leaning closer. “The catch is that I want to use you, Kirin,” he says and though he clearly doesn't mean it like _that_ , Kirin can't help but flinch. “They kicked you out from the Academy and they’re convinced all you’re capable of is becoming a monster. But you know what? I think they’re full of shit. That you’re capable of so, so much more. I want to prove them wrong. I want to show them that we’re not like them, that we’re not defined by their actions and stereotypes, that we’re so much more than this.”

It's illogical, unbelievable, too good to be true, but then again, so is a Tyvian Prince returning to take his throne after over four decades of Kalim’s regime. And even if it isn't true, it's a beautiful lie to hear, one that makes Kirin’s lip quiver, that would've brought tears to his eyes if he could still cry.

Slackjaw touches his hand, the one that's still holding the snuffbox, and he pries Kirin's fingers open without touching the box itself as if trying to convince him that he means no harm, that he really is as good and honest as he sounds.

“So here’s my deal, Kirin,” Slackjaw says, leaning away, putting his hands in his lap. “You build me that machine, become my Royal Inventor, and help me prove all those Gristolian assholes wrong. And I, on my part, will make sure you can build what you wish, have enough money for your experiments, and don’t get poisoned with some questionable stuff. Sounds fair?”

Kirin takes a long look at the snuffbox lying on his open palm, on the angry red lines marking his skin. He thinks of the Bird, wonders if this will be enough to get it back in his life. “Deal,” he says firmly. It's worth a try. “I’ll sketch a project and let you know what materials I need.”

It feels good to work again, have a goal and a purpose. Kirin pores over sketches and calculations, putting all of his energy into designing a marvel no one has witnessed before, something that will put all of the Academy to shame.

He doesn't want that to be his main driving force but it's always at the forefront because everywhere he goes, he hears Sokolov's name, whispered reverently as if the old man were a god, as if he hadn’t stolen all of his great inventions. Kirin tries his best to focus on the beauty and joy of bringing a project to life, the privilege of working for his Prince, aiding him in reclaiming his throne. But his bitterness seeps into everything, tainting every moment of peace and happiness he manages to find and he hates it, hates himself and Sokolov, hates the Academy and Dunwall. Hates that he’s so full of hatred.

Slackjaw — his Prince — comes to visit every other day or so. He does his best to not disturb Kirin, leaving the drug at the table without a word or asking a casual question here and there, but mainly just having a look at Kirin, as if making sure he's doing well, that he's not overworking himself. It reminds Kirin of Timur in a way that feels like a fist to his solar plexus and every time Slackjaw leaves his workshop, he reaches for the snuffbox and snorts just a little bit more, just enough to push those memories away. He wishes he didn't need to do that. He has no idea how to stop.

Slackjaw keeps his end of the deal (the materials and people arrive as requested and the drug is always of excellent quality, in quantities that feel perfectly reasonable — not too much, not too little), so Kirin works night and day to keep his, carefully putting together tiny clockwork mechanisms, weaving wicker and grass into the most fantastic shapes, building a loom from scratch when he finds out that there are none in Dunwall capable of making fabric thin enough for his needs, sculpting whalebones and welding metals, gradually bringing his opus magnum to life.

He barely sleeps and eats even less, until Slackjaw notices and starts an elaborate game of handpicking Kirin's menu. He never mentions it, but it's clear enough — suddenly what the kitchen serves Kirin is arrays of the most nutritionally dense foods available. Kirin knows that he can’t send the meals back without discussing his eating habits with Slackjaw, so he forces a few bites down every time a plate arrives at his table.

It gets a little easier every day and though he would never admit it out loud, it makes him feel a lot better overall. He can work harder and longer now that his body is no longer in starvation mode and he provides it with adequate amounts of nutrients. His brain suddenly works just as it used to back in the day when everything was alright. He relishes in it — the feeling of being in control of his own life again, of having a proper lab for himself, being able to focus on nothing but science. He missed this life. More than he let himself think.

The closer he gets to finishing his effigy, the better he feels. Sure, he still blacks out when he stands up too fast and his heart skips every now and then, but he's no longer bone-weary and ready to die. Suddenly, there are things worth living for — his Prince, his motherland, his god. He threads feathers into fabric light as the mist and wonders if the mountains are still as blue and majestic as he remembers, if the sky is still as high and endless. He melts gold and glass and wonders if he'll get to see the Bird circle over the onion domes of Dabokva one day.

The closer he gets to finishing his masterpiece, the less he cares about Sokolov and the Academy, realising that Slackjaw was right — they are not obligated to play by Dunwall's rules, they can win the game on their own terms, rise above all the pettiness and xenophobia. Kirin could let the hatred and bitterness take over, kill all of his feelings one by one until all that's left is his insatiable curiosity. But he'd prove them right, then, prove that he's nothing more than a freak, a monster, a danger to society. And he's neither of those things. He's a refugee, an addict, an Academy dropout, a wayward child of his god. He's a loyal servant to his Prince, Tyvia's future Royal Inventor, the brightest mind of the Empire. He's young and he's learning and refuses to let other people define him when he cannot yet define himself.

"I should be done in five days," Kirin says when he hears Slackjaw's light footsteps at the back of the room one afternoon. “I’ll need a big ship to transport it,” he adds, leaning back to adjust his magnifying glass. His spine crunches as he moves. He's spent a long time bent over the table. “I need space to assemble it and a ramp to get it on deck and off the ship.”

“I’ll talk to Corvo,” Slackjaw says. “Do you need people to help you with that?”

Kirin shakes his head, his cervical spine cracking, as well. “I can do that on my own,” he says sharply.

Slackjaw might be his Prince, but Kirin is the superior authority here.

“Are you sure?” Slackjaw asks anyway.

Kirin shoots him a look over his shoulder. “Yes,” he says, moving back to his magnifying glass. “I don’t trust anyone with it. It takes skill to put it together. I’ll do it on my own.”

“Alright,” Slackjaw agrees, smirking. Weirdly enough, he seems to like it when Kirin is being insolent. He puts the snuffbox on the table, next to Kirin's tools.

“Thanks,” Kirin says.

He doesn't reach for it, he's learned that he doesn't have to. Slackjaw doesn't play cruel games, he doesn't demand anything more than what they've agreed on, doesn't make Kirin beg or bargain. Once he's put the snuffbox down, he won't pick it up again, Kirin doesn't have to worry. So he lets it sit next to his tool wrap for the time being as he adjusts the lenses and picks up the tweezers.

“Anything else?” he asks, bending closer to the mechanism and carefully placing the cog.

“Try to sleep sometimes, people are talking,” Slackjaw says. It's an order, even though he tries to make it sound like a suggestion.

Kirin snorts. If only it was so easy.

“Pick your battles, Your Grace,” he says waspishly, “I can either eat or sleep consistently, don’t expect me to do both.”

Slackjaw sighs and if Kirin needed confirmation that he's indeed the one behind the sudden change of the menu, this is it.

“Have you ever heard of people who lost their minds from the lack of sleep?” Slackjaw asks. It's a clever change of strategy, Kirin has to give him that. It's not going to work, though. “Aren’t you worried it’s gonna happen to you, too?”

“Oh, it will eventually,” Kirin agrees, leaning closer to his clockwork, carefully screwing the cog in place. “I can work like this right now because I’m young, but with age, my mind will most certainly deteriorate.”

He does his best to sound obnoxious and flippant, hoping it will make Slackjaw angry rather than gently worried because Slackjaw's worry feels too much like Timur's, like salt rubbed into a fresh wound.

"You could prevent that by, you know, sleeping like a normal person,” Slackjaw says, wincing a little.

“I get enough sleep to keep my mind in optimal condition for another—,” Kirin pauses emphatically, clicks his tongue, tilts his head, “—twenty years?”

“Right,” Slackjaw says, finally with an edge of frustration in his tone. “And then? By the time you’re fifty, you’ll be half-mad.”

It's so sweet of him to worry about that, and so misguided, so unbearably naïve, too.

“I’m not gonna live till my fifties,” Kirin says, trying to stifle the laugh that creeps into his voice. “In fact, I’ll be surprised if I reach my forties. I’ve been damaging my heart, liver, and kidneys since I was seven, Your Grace, and you know as well as I do that this damage is irreparable.”

“ _Seven_ ,” Slackjaw echoes, blanching as if he's feeling sick all of a sudden.

Kirin hums in confirmation, putting down the screwdriver and picking up the tweezers, again. “Unless I find a way to forge myself a mechanical heart, I won’t ever have to worry about my deteriorating mind,” he says with brightness that isn't as genuine as he'd like it to be. “And I have no idea how to forge a functional heart, in case you’re wondering. So how about you let me sleep my usual three hours, and in exchange, I’ll do my best to eat more, so that you know you did your best to save me?”

Slackjaw sighs heavily and it feels just like disappointing Timur would've. The tweezers shake a little in Kirin's hand.

"Fine,” Slackjaw says after a moment. “But when you do find a way to make that mechanical heart, you’ll start sleeping more.”

Kirin can't help but laugh at the utter conviction in Slackjaw's voice. He puts down the tweezers and turns to face his Prince, smirking. “ _When_?” he repeats.

Slackjaw shrugs, smiling back. “They say you’re the most brilliant mind in the Empire,” he says. “And you’re Tyvian. There’s no impossible for us.”

Kirin laughs again, taking a moment before meeting Slackjaw’s eyes. “Alright, deal,” he says, shrugging. “When I make that heart, I’ll start sleeping at least five hours.”

The scenario is so improbable it borders impossibility, but it costs nothing to play along and put Slackjaw at ease.

“Deal,” Slackjaw says, extending a hand. Kirin shakes it firmly, feeling just the tiniest bit guilty.

Getting his machine on the ship is a nightmare. The people who are supposed to help him are reckless and clumsy, hold the parts as if they were boxes of wine or fruit and not the future of Tyvia, the effigy of an outlawed god. Kirin has to yell at every one of them and they still very nearly ruin all of his efforts when they tangle the feathers, crack the wicker skeleton, and put down the glass orbs so indelicately that it's a true miracle they don't shatter.

When everyone finally leaves the hangar and the ship sails out of Dunwall, Kirin feels so exhausted he barely manages to climb to the upper deck to watch Empire's capital growing smaller and smaller until it disappears behind the horizon.

He spends a long time leaning against the railing, breathing the fresh sea breeze, letting it ruffle and dampen his hair. Dunwall is far behind them, the ship sails smoothly, and Kirin feels at peace for the first time in ages. He's going home.

His journey is a busy one. He spends most of his time in the hangar below the deck, putting his masterpiece together, bringing the effigy of the Bird to life, part by part.

No one bothers him, spare for Slackjaw who calls him up for the meals, and he can work unperturbed long into the night and then walk up on the deck and listen to the waves in complete darkness. Sometimes he sees one of the former Whalers, a Tyvian immigrant like himself, doing the same thing, sitting down on a coil of heavy rope. The Whaler sees him too, but neither of them acknowledges it, they just sit in companionable silence, not looking at one another.

And then comes the day when they see the shores of Tyvia on the horizon and Kirin spends an hour with hands clasped tight around the railing, looking up into the sky, hoping to see the Bird, but finds nothing but the blue vastness.

When he guides the effigy to the upper deck a few hours later, he knows he created something incredible, something no one else could've made, something no one else could've even dreamt about. Geoff Curnow's mouth opens at the sight of it, even Daud, the infamous assassin, takes a sharp breath, his eyes widening. The former Whalers, the Tyvian refugees, all sigh softly, their knees buckling. But nothing matters to Kirin as much as the awe in his Prince's eyes.

“It’s magnificent,” Slackjaw whispers.

Kirin smiles at that, proud and flattered, and genuinely happy.

“Is this…” Curnow says quietly, his eyes trained at Kirin's creation, widening as it cocks its head to the side. “Is this your god?”

The effigy raises one wing and begins to preen its feathers in a way that Kirin hasn't programmed it to, a way so realistic, it tears his soul apart with longing and foolish hope.

The effigy of the Bird raises its head then, its one white eye blinking with love and pride that knocks the breath out of Kirin's chest. He slides on his knees, bowing before his good and forgiving god, who catches him by the elbows, its feathered fingers warming Kirin's weary bones through layers of fabric and flesh.

“You bow and kneel for no one, my child,” the Bird says, its voice like flutes of the shepherds, like a whisper of the grass, like the trot of sturdy steppe horses. Kirin's heart swells to the point it feels like it's about to burst when the Bird smiles upon him. “Welcome home,” the Bird says, kissing him on the forehead.

Then it turns to Slackjaw, brimming with pride, and even the Prince himself is speechless, teary and emotional.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Slackjaw says after a while, his voice hoarse.

The Bird laughs, the sound like an avalanche, like echoing mountains. It reaches out to touch Slackjaw’s temples and for a moment, Kirin sees a heavy crown of Tyvian ore and rubies resting upon them.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, my son,” the Many-Eyed God says, baring its obsidian teeth in a smile.

And then the Prince and his god leave, walk into the city of Dabokva, making their way through the welcoming crowds and to the onion-domed Citadel, to their rightful home.

Kirin watches them as long as his eyes can follow, feeling elated, relieved, almost serene. He did it — he gave the Bird a physical form so it could walk among them and save Tyvia from Secretary Kalin, give it back the Prince it missed for decades. He rose to the occasion, fulfilled the task he was assigned and the Bird rewarded him with its presence, its voice, its love, strong, almost palpable as it spoke to him and called him its child, despite all of his mistakes, despite his betrayal. It's more Kirin dared to wish for, more than he deserves.

"Do you think he will be safe?" Geoff Curnow asks, standing nearby. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest, hands tucked underneath, hidden from Kirin's sight.

Logically, Kirin knows that what Curnow tries to hide is his affection for Slackjaw, but the fact that he can hardly ever see the man's hands makes him feel profoundly uncomfortable and unsafe, anyway. Curnow might not be like most guards he's met, but old habits die hard, and Kirin is nothing but a coiled spring, a wary animal around him, always on the lookout, ready to bite.

"Of course he will," Kirin says, as flatly as he can. Slackjaw might like his waspishness, but guards and soldiers rarely do.

Curnow looks at him, his round, blue eyes scan Kirin's face, making sure that he meant what he said, and then the line of his shoulders relaxes a little.

"I never took you for a religious person," Curnow says after a moment.

Kirin snorts, before thinking better of it. "And why is that?" he asks and miraculously manages to twist his anger into a mockery. It's not safe, nor is it smart, but he can't help it, not when Curnow so blatantly compares him to Sokolov, that blasphemous dog, that joke of a Tyvian, the very man who nearly ruined Kirin.

To his surprise, Curnow is not mad but rather bemused. His mouth quirks as he looks away, his shoulders drawing up again. "Old prejudice against natural philosophers, I suppose," he says, forcing a laugh. "I'm not particularly religious myself," he adds, unprompted. One of his hands sneaks around his bicep and squeezes hard. "In fact, I didn't believe gods existed until I saw yours speak today."

There's a faint note of hysteria in his voice and a cloying need to be understood. It's a display of vulnerability that should comfort Kirin, make him feel safer, more like Curnow's equal.

But it doesn't.

No matter what Curnow says or _how_ he says it, no matter how much Slackjaw trusts him, it cannot erase the fact that he's served long years in the City Watch. And maybe he wasn't as cruel, greedy, or corrupt as most watchmen but he was still part of the system that abused those who couldn't fight back. The system that never let Kirin forget that his place of birth made him lesser than the lowliest of Gristolians, that no matter what the watchmen did to him, they'd go unpunished, that at any given moment he was at their mercy and a single word out of turn could get him killed.

Geoff Curnow might be a decent man at his core, pure and full of good intentions. But Kirin will never trust him, despite that.

"I thought religion was just a way to keep us all in line, make sure we obey the rules," Curnow says and the sheer desperation in his eyes makes Kirin's skin crawl. "When Slackjaw talked about your god, I could tell he wasn't lying, but I thought that… it was all in his head, that he made it up, unconsciously. And I feel so stupid now."

"You should," Kirin replies, shrugging. It's more defensive than he'd have liked. Curnow flinches, his eyes round and unsettlingly blue. "Why would a god speak to you, if you don't believe in their existence?" Kirin says, looking away. "Religion is a dialogue. His Grace prayed and the Bird answered. It always answers those who call its name."

Curnow watches him carefully for a long while and it takes a lot of effort for Kirin to bear it. He's slowly coming down and it only heightens the anxiety this conversation gives him. He wishes he could just disappear in the belly of the ship, but he knows better than to run.

"Do you... see it often?" Curnow asks eventually. "Your god, I mean."

Kirin lets his eyes close for a second as he takes a deep breath. "Less often than I'd like," he says, wincing as he hears the lilting melody of Tyvian creeping into his usually pristine Gristolian.

"Why?"

Logically, Kirin doesn't owe Curnow an answer. Instinctively, he doesn't dare to leave a watchman's question unanswered. So he steels all of his muscles, making sure he doesn't so much as flinch when he says,

"I erred. Forsake it. Now I pay the price."

It feels like his soul is being stripped naked, like he's letting Curnow see a part of him that's so private no one's ever seen it bare like this, and it's horrifying, humiliating, it's a torture that he can't escape. He can detach himself from whatever happens to his body, but there's no way to hide when it's his psyche that's on display.

"I hope it forgives you," Curnow says, softly. He looks away and it's as if a spell is broken — Kirin's muscles relax instantly, his vision blurs, and he nearly drops to his knees. He feels sick and exhausted and wants nothing more than to be sent away. "I'm sorry for being so ignorant," Curnow adds, eyes fixed on the domes of the Citadel, brows pinched together. "And thank you for bearing with me."

Kirin wants to laugh because Curnow seems to mean it, seems to believe that Kirin did this out of his goodwill and not because he felt threatened and trapped. He wants to tell Curnow that he wishes he didn't _have to_ bear with him and just how much he despises soldiers and watchmen. He wants to take out years of humiliation and frustration on him, make Curnow feel the way he did. But he knows better than to do any of those things and what he says, in the end, is a simple,

"You're welcome."

For one brief, wonderful day after Secretary Kalin's fall, Kirin hopes.

He hopes that leaving Dunwall behind will be enough to put a wall between him and his past. But life doesn't work like that, there's no such thing as a fresh start, and his memories follow him all the way to the lavish rooms of the Dabokva Citadel, to the soft four-poster bed that feels overwhelmingly huge when he slides under the covers, tucking his knees to his chest.

People believe he doesn't sleep because of drugs, or because he's a quirky genius and he lets them think that. Being called a pretentious asshole or a junkie is easier to bear than the pity people would inevitably offer if he was foolish enough to tell them the truth.

And the truth is that despite the glory of this day — Kalin's fall, Slackjaw's win, leaving Gristol behind, the Bird absolving him of his sins — Kirin's nightmares are still there.

Dabokva welcomes him warmly, with praise for his achievements and condolences for his losses, with stories of his father, whom he barely remembers at this point and the news that he still has a family in Tyvia, even if it's distant. The people are kind and generous and do their best to make him feel like he belongs. Some of them speak in his home accent, the lilting melody of the steppes. Some of them have skin and eyes as dark as his.

Yet, all of this only exacerbates his pain, does nothing but remind him of Timur, who'd be so proud of him, so happy to see a Korolev Prince claim the throne and the Bird take over the Tyvian firmament.

His brother is like a missing piece of his heart, one that he cannot live without, one that he cannot replace.

When he falls asleep, he dreams of Timur, whitewashed and weeping blood, clawing at his own face. And it doesn't matter if he's in Dunwall or Dabokva, if he's an outcast or a Royal Inventor. There's no such thing as a fresh start. There are wounds that never heal.

Memories cling to him for long hours after he wakes, unless he scrubs them off by immersing himself in work, diving head-on into another one of his projects as soon as he opens his eyes. So that's what he does, sketching frantic plans, jotting down hasty calculations on the cloth napkins leftover from dinner.

Even though his Prince is busy with preparations for his coronation, he somehow finds the time to order the supplies for Kirin, every little thing he requests and more, and Kirin is glad that he doesn't have to thank him for it in person. He's not sure he'd find the right words to express how grateful he is for everything, face to face with the man who single-handedly turned him away from the path of self-destruction.

He spends days and nights locked up in his new lab — spacious and well-furnished — undisturbed by anyone, spare for a young blond-haired noble who makes sure Kirin doesn't leave his meals untouched. His name is Igor and he speaks in the snappy, crackling accent of Dabokva, with vowels like waves and consonants sharp and abrupt as cliffs. He's nice, gentle, non-intrusive, and Kirin doesn't really mind his presence while he eats. Every once in a while, Igor stays for a moment after the meal and watches curiously as Kirin works on some new contraption.

Somewhere in the meantime, Kirin shows up at court to be officially proclaimed the Royal Inventor. He loves the title but hates the celebration. The nobles of Dabokva are all nice enough on their own but gathered in the throne room, they create an unbearable mass of brightly coloured clothes and rapid-fire conversation that combined make Kirin more than a little sick to his stomach.

And that's when Igor comes to his rescue.

"I'm sorry if I'm being presumptuous, sir," Igor says with a small, sheepish smile, his hands moving nervously, but in plain sight, "but I've been wondering if I might ask about your work."

"Kirin," is the first thing he says in response. "There's no reason for you to call me 'sir'." Igor nods, a pink flush spreading across his cheeks. "And of course, ask away," Kirin adds, taking a deep breath.

Talking about his work is good and safe, it's something that puts him at ease, unlike this entire grandiose celebration, the fancy drinks and fancier dresses, the polite and meaningless small talk.

"I know nothing of natural philosophy so please forgive me if I say something foolish," Igor says right away, lifting his hands in a semi-defensive gesture. "But I was wondering if, through science, it is possible to restore someone's hearing."

Kirin gives him a long, interested look, and Igor's blush deepens into magenta.

"I'm sorry, as I said, I have no idea—" he begins, but Kirin cuts him off, waving a hand.

"No, no, it's a really interesting question," he assures. "I just never thought about it before, is all."

"Oh," Igor says, the corners of his mouth twitch, pulling down. "So it's not something the physicians of the Academy do, then."

There's a touch of disappointment in his voice, reassuring Kirin in his belief that this isn't merely a theoretical issue for Igor — there's someone in his life, someone he cares about, with a hearing impairment.

"Are we talking complete loss of hearing?" he asks, trying to keep his tone neutral.

He's never been much of a physician but he knows the anatomy and he's good at inventing things. Perhaps he could find a way, fuse his medical knowledge and engineering skills to help.

"No, she still hears, just not well and it frustrates her so much," Igor says, looking down, curling his hands into fists. "We've been to so many doctors but they all say it's incurable, that no surgery will help."

Kirin nods, thoughtfully. "Bring her to me," he says. "I'll see what I can do."

Her name is Nadia and she looks like a miniature version of Igor — with the same button-like nose, blue eyes, and dirty blond hair. She's twelve and her hearing was damaged after a viral infection left her bedridden for two weeks last winter.

The bad news is that the physicians she'd seen were right — a surgery can't help here, it's not a matter of simple removal of a foreign object or repositioning bones. The good news is that her hearing is not gone and the damage isn't progressive, which means that once Kirin finds a solution, it should work for long years to come.

He runs dozens of tests, trying to establish what types of sounds need amplifying and how much does he need to amplify them. What's too quiet and what's too loud. What she wants to hear and what she doesn't care for.

Then he sends her and Igor away, promising to get them back once he has a prototype, and the moment they're gone, he begins to sketch.

It takes longer than he'd like, weeks instead of days, several failed attempts, multiple electric burns on his fingers, several sleepless nights, a tea stain that he can't get off his work pants, and an entire sea of frustration.

But it's all worth it once he puts the amplifier behind Nadia's afflicted ear, places the receiver in her ear canal, and asks, very softly, if she can hear him now.

The sudden jerk of her head, the look of shock mixed with awe, they're a delight to watch, they fill Kirin with the same pride he felt when Slackjaw praised his effigy, the pride of having done something new and spectacular, but most of all, good. It's then that he finally understands what Galvani had meant when he spoke of the joy of being a doctor — this exhilarating, intoxicating sensation of a job well done, of making someone's life easier, better.

Nadia throws her arms around his neck, squeezing tight as she mumbles, "Thank you, thank you, thank you, by the Bird, thank you."

And the Bird's there, for just a moment, white and glorious, and pleased, its one eye blinking slowly, its smile kind and approving.

Kirin snakes out of Nadia's embrace because he doesn't like being touched, but he smiles back at her and Igor as he lists all the dos and don'ts they must follow.

And when they leave his lab, he thumbs through all the pages of notes, sketches, and calculations, and thinks that he's found his niche, in the end, found what he wants to do.

The nightmares stay, no matter how hard he works, how many people he helps. After Nadia Mitina, there are others — mostly nobles, some with hearing problems, some with vision impairments that classic glasses don't help for, some with missing extremities. He finds solutions for all of them, solutions of clockworks, brass, and ceramics, of electricity and magnetism.

He works long into the night just to catch a few hours of fitful sleep at dawn, every time dreaming of Timur, weeping blood and clawing at his chest. Every time, he wakes up, the old pain in his chest taking his breath away and his fingers itching to grasp for the snuffbox. He denies himself for a moment, a few minutes, until the pain of being awake, of living with Timur's dead face engraved under his eyelids, becomes unbearable. Then he snorts a line, closes his eyes for a few minutes, waiting for his muscles to relax, for his mind to clear, and he jumps back into work. And then, it's rinse and repeat, over and over.

He's tired. Tired of this routine, tired of hurting, of his incapability to move on. Timur would've wanted him to, he would've hated to see Kirin like this. But Kirin is stuck. His body moves through space and time, his mind skips miles ahead, but his heart is still in that apartment on the Drapers Ward, kneeling in the doorway of Timur's room, watching the pallid, blood-stricken face of his brother. And he cannot move it, cannot force it to follow his body and mind, try as he may.

In the meantime, coronation happens. Nobles from all over the Empire crowd the throne room, whispering and undulating, a cacophony of dialects and accents, of fabrics and colours, of heavy, flowery scents.

Sokolov is there, too, clad in moss-green, with hands clasped behind his back. He looks old and frail, so unlike the man who banished Kirin from the Academy, who nearly broke his life in half. Outside the Academy's walls, Sokolov holds no power and Kirin meets his gaze without fear or hatred, realising that at the end of the day, Sokolov is just a man. A man who cannot see the Bird watching over them with three brilliantly green eyes, one set on the past, one tracking the present, one gazing into the future.

Kirin bows his head before his god and his god smiles, its teeth like water plants, bright and wet, filling the air with a tart, cleansing scent. Kirin thinks of the days he spent by the river with Timur, back when he was a child, the freshness of calamus they dug up, the sensation of cool water against his feet. He thinks of the old prayer, the entire village whispering in unison, voices clashing to create a harmony of a new kind — _and all that's evil and hurtful shall pass, chased away by the wings of the Bird_.

And then, the Prince, a vision in royal reds trimmed with bear fur, with a face like a reflection of the mosaic before them, the smiling visage of Karol Topek. If anyone had doubts, they are gone now, no one dares to question Prince Aleksandr's claim to the throne anymore. He's a Korolev, he's the Bird's chosen, he's their rightful Prince. So they drop to their knees, press their right fists to their chests and pledge their allegiance to the man they've waited for, the man brought to them by their kind and merciful god.

Right after the coronation, Prince Aleksandr takes a knee and asks Geoff Curnow to marry him, an act surprising no one but the delegation from Gristol, who watch the betrothal with faces frozen in shock. It feels like a joke to Kirin, the thought that someone could’ve missed the feelings between His Grace and his soon-to-be-husband, the warmth in their voices, the searing looks, the kiss they shared as they arrived in Tyvia.

His Grace is beaming, his smile so bright and genuine, it makes the Bird weep, its tears rolling down the feathers and spilling across the floor like myriads of tiny diamonds. Curnow is red as a brick, his voice breaking, hand shaking as he extends it to the Prince so that he can slide a ring on his finger. He seems terrified and embarrassed, but when Prince Aleksandr leans in for a kiss, Curnow practically melts into it, relief and happiness radiating from him in powerful waves.

The wedding date is fixed for midsummer, the Night of Dancing Lights, invitations are issued, congratulations accepted, and in the middle of a frenetic party that ensues, Kirin slips out of the ballroom and into his lab.

Life goes on as it did before. Kirin hardly sleeps, eats as much as necessary to keep Igor from snitching on him to the Prince, works more than he should but less than he’d like to, and all that changes is that his heart skips a little more often, a small, insignificant thing, so easy to ignore, when Kirin's heart is still all the way back in Dunwall, stuck four and a half year from now, yearning to touch his brother's face.

He's passing another sleepless night, curled up over a clockwork mechanism, when Prince Aleksandr walks into his lab, quiet as a ghost, blending into the shadows, barely disturbing the heavy silence. He sits down on a bench, next to Kirin and looks out of the open window, into the countless stars, brighter and closer here than in Gristol. The night is cool but not unbearably so, there's a single cricket chirping in the distance, woken up too early, bound to die too soon.

"You've been sleeping less and less," the Prince says.

Kirin shrugs, it's stupid, childish. It suits him, he is a child, after all, a foolish, hopeless child. "Igor told you?" he asks, it's a deflection as much as a challenge.

"Talk to me," the Prince says, ignoring both. He sounds tired, pained, and Kirin hates to hear it. He's still stubbornly silent, though, and the Prince sighs heavily. "Kirochka, please," he says with an edge of desperation in his voice and—

It's sickening, like pulling out a milk tooth that has been hanging on the last strip of skin — fast and sudden, a moment of panic followed by hot white pain and the sweet taste of blood filling his mouth.

Breath escapes his lungs in a wheezing gasp, hands darts up to cover his mouth, already open to let out a wet, pained sob. He presses his fingers deep into his hollow cheeks to stifle the sounds he makes, closes his eyes to slow down the tears, but now that the dam has broken, he cannot stop them anymore, they fall and fall and fall.

Prince Aleksandr reaches out to him. He doesn't touch Kirin, his hand hovering in the air, waiting for Kirin’s decision. And just like on the night he cried for the last time, Kirin takes the invitation, curls into the person offering him comfort, accepting the body warmth and deft fingers that comb through his hair in the same way Timur's used to.

The thoughts of Timur's fingers, Timur calling him diminutives, Timur being there for him whenever he needed comfort, they hurt, burn through his soul. But this time, it doesn't crumble into ash, this time it comes out whole, just a little wilted, smudged with soot and smoke.

Prince Aleksandr holds him for hours, while the stars melt into the blanching sky, until Kirin calms down fully. Only then does he ask, "What is it, Kiryusha? Talk to me."

And Kirin does, in spite of himself — he tells his Prince of his life in the steppes, the calamus roots by the river, the horseback riding, the day he lost his father, the horrible trip to Dunwall, the looming terror of his mother and the sad tale of his addiction. He talks about Timur — his love, his kindness, the undeniable goodness of his heart, the happy years they passed together in their little apartment on the Drapers Ward; he talks about Timur's death and funeral, about life without him, the aching hole inside Kirin's heart, the inability to move on, the unshakeable guilt.

"I miss him so much," Kirin says in the end, his voice pathetically small, barely more than a whisper, and Prince Aleksandr hugs him a little tighter. "He'd love it here. He'd be so happy to know that some of our cousins are still alive."

"I know how you feel," the Prince says in a singsong, lilting way, the pale blue light of the small hours painting on wrinkles on his face that haven’t been there before. "I was raised by my nurse. She saved me from the slaughter in Samara. Brought me to Dunwall. Gave up her entire life for me and taught me all she knew. And when I first arrived here, I wished she could see me now, be here with me." He laughs softly, making Kirin look up into his smiling face. "And then I remembered what your kinsmen say about dying."

Kirin sucks in a sharp breath. How could he not have thought of that, strayed so far from the beliefs of his ancestors? How could he think of Timur as a dead body in faraway Dunwall when there were so many other possibilities? Why would Timur choose to stay behind if he could ride along with the wind, tangle himself between a falcon's feathers, or bury himself into the soft, oily river mud?

The elders of his clan used to say that the dead were never gone — not unless they were forgotten, and Timur lived in Kirin's memory, his presence strong and bright, like a candle flame in a quiet room. He could be anywhere, he could be anything, but he was there and Kirin could still talk to him, even if he couldn't feel his presence.

He turns to his Prince, who shushes him and slides his fingers through Kirin's hair in a soothing gesture.

"Don't mention it, Kiryusha," he says with a smile.

So Kirin doesn't. But he's grateful, more than he could express.


End file.
